


Every Now and Then, I'll Call Upon My Friend

by annie_reckson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John's still a writer, Johnstrade AU, M/M, Sherlock AU, crushing from afar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:49:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2583629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie_reckson/pseuds/annie_reckson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This being their first awards show, they’d made the possibly disastrous decision to share a bottle of cheap whiskey in their hotel room before they were picked up. And then to sneak it in their coats downstairs to the hotel lobby so that they could finish it off in the limousine. As a result, the more John lingered on the blue carpet, the better he was beginning to feel about his situation. He was even able to pretend, a bit, that most of those flashbulbs were for him.</p><p>OR<br/>An AU where John and Sherlock are the successful author and graphic designer (respectively) of a best-selling graphic novel that gets turned into a blockbuster movie. They attend an award show and John, in his somewhat inebriated state, maybe admits a little more than he means to about one of the stars of the movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Now and Then, I'll Call Upon My Friend

**Author's Note:**

> So! This was definitely meant to be an entry for the Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo for the prompt "Blue" (hence the...blueness...all over this little fic) but then real life got hectic and I worked on other things and this kinda got abandoned.
> 
> But the idea stayed in the back of my head and I knew I wanted to work on it some more.
> 
> I'm not saying its done either, I definitely want to explore this AU more, I just don't want to promise anything when I have so many other things to write before I can play in this universe again!
> 
> Title taken from the Mooney Suzuki song "Good Ol' Alcohol"

John wasn’t exactly sure how he’d gotten here.

Well, of course, he knew the trajectory that brought him here: he'd written a graphic novel, that his best friend Sherlock Holmes had illustrated, about an illustrious detective called Basil of Baker Street. It had become a sleeper hit, building up a solid fanbase until its popularity reached the executives of Sony, who eagerly negotiated for the rights. The first movie had been so successful that the date for the sequel had been moved to the beginning of next summer. It was so good, in fact, that it had been nominated for Movie of the Year in the Teen’s Choice Awards which, while it wasn’t exactly the Academy Awards, was still a nice honor. In fact, one of the stars of the first movie, Greg Lestrade, was also present, although John hadn’t seen him yet.

And he knew, physically, literally, how he’d gotten here: a limousine had picked Sherlock and him up at the rather nice hotel that Sony was paying for and driven them to the Shrine Auditorium where flashbulbs had already started going off by the time the car doors had been opened for them.

But, still, being here, amongst people much more famous than himself, had a surreal quality that he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to.

Not surprisingly, a lot of the photographers and fans were clueless as to who either of them were, although there was a small contingent of teenagers that eagerly sought out their attention. John was pleased to note that he recognised a few faces from the small booth they’d occupied at Comic-Con a couple years prior, back before the success of the movie had catapulted them into needing to rent a whole room,  looking just as happy to see both of them. Everyone else though, looked past and around them, as if they expected a third, more famous, head to pop out of the limousine at any moment.

Still, John strolled across the blue carpet with his head held high, even if he felt a bit out of place. In fact, he was worried that he was a bit too matchy, with his dark blue and black buttoned-up plaid shirt and jeans. To be honest, he felt like the blue tie - which their publicist, Sally, had insisted was called “admiral blue” and would “make [his] eyes pop” - was a bit overkill, but he hadn’t been allowed to leave the limousine without it.

Now Sherlock, he looked like he belonged there with his artfully tousled curls, lanky figure, and incandescent eyes that seemed to swirl with all sorts of bright colours. Combined with the V-neck he was wearing that dipped right to the middle of his sternum and black skinny jeans that were ridiculously tight, John could understand why reporters kept stopping him to ask questions, despite them often not realising that he was simply an incredibly talented graphic artist.

This being their first awards show, they’d made the possibly disastrous decision to share a bottle of cheap whiskey in their hotel room before they were picked up. And then to sneak it in their coats downstairs to the hotel lobby so that they could finish it off in the limousine. As a result, the more John lingered on the blue carpet, the better he was beginning to feel about his situation. He was even able to pretend, a bit, that most of those flashbulbs were for him.

One reporter - a pretty blonde girl from a website he’d never heard of - was asking him a question about the storyline for the second movie when he noticed a commotion happening towards his right. Both he and the young woman turned their heads at the same time to see Greg Lestrade arriving to the event. And he looked brilliant. John had to suck in a gasp as his eyes raked over Greg’s form. He was wearing a solid colored button-up - what would Sally call it? “Cobalt” maybe - and a leather jacket with black jeans and boots.

John knew he’d been asked another question, but he was unable to tear his eyes away from the cheeky grin that was on Greg’s face while he greeted the screaming fans at the entrance. Sure, he’d seen Greg on set the few days that him and Sherlock had visited during filming, and he’d certainly noticed how talented and, well, handsome the man was as Detective Tobias Gregson, the inspector who often begrudgingly sought out Basil’s assistance. But here, with him looking as good as he did, John couldn’t help but feel the faint rumblings of the crush he’d been resolutely trying to ignore settle in his gut.

A sharp tug at his elbow shook him out of his trance, and he looked up to see Sherlock smirking and rolling his eyes at him. Embarrassingly, John brought his attention back to the young lady speaking to them both, but Sherlock beat him to answering the question.

“I’m afraid all we can really say is that the movie won’t strictly follow the storyline of the graphic novel. It’s been a few years since we finished the second book and we’ve realised that there are themes we wanted to explore further that we didn’t necessarily even think of before. So we’re excited to be given the freedom to do so and we hope to live up to the high expectations set before us.”

John watched as Sherlock nodded amiably, thanked the woman for her time, and hustled them both along past her. Despite the man’s otherwise surly personality, he had a knack for presenting a friendly demeanor when the situation called for it. And John loved how especially chatty he could be when he’d had a few drinks. And it of course helped that the young woman seemed instantly charmed by Sherlock's posh accent, nearly every American was.

“Thank you, by the way,” John slurred out as he leaned against Sherlock, once they were safely on their own.

Sherlock chuckled, “Don’t mention it. Can’t have you mucking up our first big awards show, eh? Even if it is just the....which one are we at again?”

“The umm...the Teen’s Choice Awards, I think?”

“Ah yes. That one. The garishly blue carpet should have been a giveaway.”

John put his hand in front of his face to hide his laughter, “Sally should have never sent us here on our own.”

“We can never tell her that, though.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

A beaming smile attached to a very tanned face was waving them over now, and John was definitely sure he didn’t recognise this guy either. It was becoming very obvious that he would really have to update his pop culture knowledge once he was safely back in London. He hoped the lost look on his face wasn’t obvious to the people who were interviewing him.

Sherlock leaned over to whisper in his ear, “Think you can handle this one? Or are you just going to slack your jaw over Lestrade some more?”

John nudged him with his elbow, “Oi! You trying to abandon me again, so soon?”

“I’ll be around, don’t worry! Are you aware how many...fascinating people are here?”

“Oh bloody hell! You’re going to wander around and try to figure out who’s shagging who, aren’t you?”

“I can’t help that I’m extremely good at it.”

“You’re far too modest.”

Sherlock smirked again, “I’m really not.”

John shooed him away, “Alright then, have fun I suppose. I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

“Want me to tell you who Lestrade wants to....engage with?” Sherlock’s smile was devilish.

“Uggghhh, bugger off will you?”

“Suit yourself, then. I’ll leave you to figure it out on your own. You know my methods!”

John rolled his eyes as Sherlock walked away, no doubt figuring out all sorts of little details about the much more famous people roaming around them. He was sure he’d hear all about it during the ceremony. Now though, he needed to focus on the reporter that was still waiting on him to walk over; Sally had been quite adamant on them chatting with as many people as possible while they were there. This event would be most people’s first time seeing them and Sally had been insistent that they make the best impression possible. And if at this point he might be seeing double, well, he’d just focus on the blend in the middle and hope for the best.

He walked over as gracefully as he was able, “How are you this evening?”

That was an acceptable opening, right? He was sure that’s what Sally had coached them to say. If he said it first, it made him seem open, engaging, and down-to-earth. Or something.

He received another wide smile as his reply, “I am fantastic, thank you!” The man turned to the camera, “I’m here with...John Watson, the writer of the Basil of Baker Street graphic novels,” Then back to John, “And you also helped write the script for the movie, correct?”

The man knew who John was, and while that was flattering, it put John at a bit of a disadvantage. That was alright though, the warm whiskey sloshing in his belly assured him that he would be fine regardless. All he needed was to grin cheekily and answer the questions.

“Well yeah, both Sherlock and I have been heavily involved with the...adaptation. The whole process has been very brilliant.” Bugger, he really wasn’t supposed to say ‘very’.

“You’ve got quite a few nominations tonight! Best Movie, Best Screenplay, Greg Lestrade is up for Best Supporting Acto-”

“Oh! Lestrade is brilliant. Have you seen him tonight? He looks really amazing. Such a fantastic actor!”

“Ah, did you get to interact with him much on set?”

“Not as much as I’d like, no.”

“Is there going to be a get together for the cast and crew if you guys win?”

John gave his best hearty laugh, “If we happen to win Best Movie, I’ll invite Greg Lestrade personally up to my hotel room for nachos and beer.”

“Oh really?” The man’s eyes were positively twinkling, “Should we relay that information?”

Before his mind could catch with his mouth, “I think I’d be rather upset with you if you didn’t!”

With a wink, John strolled away down to the next reporter, who simply asked him who he was wearing. And, fuck, Sally had told him multiple times. Had recited it when she was buttoning his shirt and straightening the collar. She was absolutely going to kill him for forgetting.

Well, he was fucked anyway, “Ah....my publicist is going to absolutely murder me for forgetting! I can’t tell you the label, but I can assure you that they’re extremely comfortable. I would highly recommend this fantastic outfit I have on for anyone.”

For her part, the young woman seemed charmed, “Oh good, so John Watson supports plaid shirts?”

Somehow, stupidly, his gaze swayed past her and fell back onto Greg Lestrade, who was busy posing for photos and looking ridiculously hot. From what John could see, he was alternating between plastering a huge grin on his face and doing “model face.” Both were nice. John realised he was staring when Greg happened to look his way and crinkled his nose when he smiled at him.

John coughed, “I am actually a fan of quite a few types of...shirts. Or even a lack of shirts. I’m all for equal opportunity.”

He wasn’t even sure if his last answer made sense, but thankfully he was nearing the end of the gaggle of eager interviewers and could see the very tips of Sherlock’s tousled curls just ahead of him. A few more young women asked him questions, but he didn’t remember what sort of answers he gave them, only focused on trying to reach Sherlock and escape from this mess. He’d shown his face, he’d smiled, he’d answered ridiculous questions; as far as he was concerned, he’d fulfilled his obligation to Sally. Now he just wanted to grab another drink and settle in for the next few hours.

By the time he reached Sherlock, he could tell that his friend was also eager to get inside. He was rolling his eyes and bouncing excitedly on his toes while waiting for John to walk towards him. Apparently the celebrities around them weren’t as interesting as Sherlock hoped. His face practically beamed when he noticed John though.

Sherlock gave him a wicked grin, “My, my, John! I knew you had a little crush on Lestrade but I had no idea that you’d actually act on it!”

John’s brow furrowed, “What are you talking about? I haven’t even talked to him.”

“Well no, of course not! But you did say- Wait, you actually have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

For a moment, his gut dropped, “Fuck. Did I mention him in an interview or something?”

“John,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes and placed a hand on John’s shoulder, “You told an interviewer that if Basil of Baker Street won for Best Movie you’d personally invite Lestrade up to your hotel room.”

His face was ashen, “Oh God. I said that?”

The wicked grin was back, “Oh yes, quite happily.”

“Fuck...Sally’s going to kill me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “That’s all you’re going to focus on?”

“Sherlock,” John huffed and crossed his arms, “We’re talking about Greg Lestrade here. A very famous, sought-out, and talented actor whom I merely chatted with a few times while you and I were on set, but that’s it. There’s a good chance that someone will have to remind him who I even am in the first place.”

“You are a truly ridiculous man,” Sherlock pressed a solid hand to John’s lower back, “Well, I suppose we should get inside, then. Grab our seats and all that.”

“Should probably hit the bar first. They have a bar, don’t they?”

Sherlock cocked his head as if he were trying to figure it out, “Hmm...yes. I’m surprised you can’t smell the ethanol from here.”

John chuckled as they walked through the doors, “And I’m the ridiculous one?”

 

***

 

The auditorium did  _indeed_  have a bar, a very nicely-stocked one that just happened to carry John's favorite bourbon. And at a reasonable price as well. He smiled as he gingerly sipped it, trying his best to push any nagging thoughts away. For once, he was actually glad not to have his phone on him, by now he was sure it would be buzzing incessantly with texts and calls from Sally. Surely she’d seen his red, well  _blue_ , carpet snafu by now and would be none too pleased.

All in all, he hadn’t screwed up too badly. He hadn’t swore or gotten too drunk or insulted anyone. Now all he had to do was make it through the rest of the evening while acting as innocuous as possible and hope the repercussions were small. There really wasn’t any reason for Greg to react if the interviewer actually decided to tell him; chances are he’d be confused more than anything else. So he really only had Sally to worry about and he wouldn’t be able to check his phone until he got back to his hotel room.

There was still a bit of time before the lights would dim and they’d have to move to their seats, so they leaned against the wooden bar and watched the rest of the guests walk in. It had the benefit of allowing John to shift his focus onto Sherlock’s excited ramblings besides him; his lanky friend would never admit how excited he was to be here, but John could tell that the rush from increased stimuli was getting him worked up. John hadn’t seen him this bright-eyed since their first trip to Comic-Con had yielded such an increase of data and stimuli that Sherlock’s already overworking brain nearly shorted out and they’d had to leave a day early.

“So John,” Sherlock turned his frenetic eyes towards him, “What makes you think Lestrade doesn’t remember you?”

John scoffed,”That’s kind of a preposterous question, innit?’

His eyes narrowed, “Why do you think so?”

“We interacted with him three times during the entire shoot. I reckon he’s more likely to remember the costume designers rather than the nerdy writers-’

“John. I am not nerdy.”

“Well you certainly don’t look like one, but a discussion of the explosions in Star Trek would seem to suggest otherwise.”

“Now listen, the science itself proves that it would be completely improbable for-” Sherlock pursed his lips, “Don’t change the subject, John.”

He held his hands up in defense, “It was worth a shot, you have to admit.”

“Indeed. Now, regarding your crush on Lestrade-”

“Sherlock, alright, can we just drop it? Greg Lestrade is a handsome, talented, incredible actor and there are likely millions of people with hopeless crushes on him. All it makes me is just another person with a snowball’s chance.”

He could practically hear the eyeroll coming from the man beside him, “John, you are a brilliant man, but sometimes you are truly dense.”

Before John had a chance to answer or defend himself, the fancy lights above them dimmed a few times, signalling that they needed to make their way to their seats. He furrowed his brow at Sherlock as they settled up their tab and entered back into the hallway that led to the massive auditorium.

They’re seated relatively near the front, with the rest of the cast and main crew from the Basil of Baker Street movie. It’s still mostly segregated though, John and Sherlock are sat on the end of the row near a few of the executive producers and Molly Hooper, the director. He holds his breath when he sees Lestrade making his way down the aisle and giving a nod to the gathering on John’s end - and possibly John imagines it, but Greg seems to linger a bit when he glances at John - before sitting closer to the center. John can’t see for sure, but he’s fairly certain that Greg sits next to Tom...something, the young up and comer who had managed to snag the coveted role of Basil himself in the movie, despite a decidingly middling ability to act. For his part, though, his resemblance to the Basil that Sherlock had illustrated was uncanny, and he worked extremely well under Molly’s direction. Both of which more than made up for the stutter he made somewhat of an effort to control.

Throughout the award show, the only problem John found was that now that he knew exactly where Greg was sitting, his eyes strayed every chance they got. He had to make a conscious decision to keep his focus on whichever celebrity was speaking; every time his mind drifted, his gaze did as well. And Lestrade’s profile was quite nice, an adorably round nose, cute little dimpled chin, and stubble he wanted to rake his teeth over.

Alright, that last two-fingers of bourbon might have been a mistake.

When Greg won Best Supporting Actor, John bit down on his bottom lip as he smiled and applauded. He may have allowed himself a few moments of watching Lestrade run up the stairs in his jeans; jeans that fit him criminally well. Sherlock leaned towards him and whispered as Greg was talking, but John had tuned him out in favor of listening to the acceptance speech that Greg was giving. And he may have beamed more than a little bit when Greg mentioned both Sherlock and him by name as the writers of Basil.

A weight settled in his stomach a moment later when he realized that meant Greg did in fact know who he was by name. Which caused anxiety to swirl in his gut along with the bourbon for the rest of the broadcast up until it was time to announce Best Picture. He was only shaken out of his stupor because both Sherlock and Molly were grasping his hands while they were announcing the nominees.

And when they announced the winner, John shook his head in disbelief because he genuinely thought he’d misheard. But then, suddenly, everyone around him stood and started jumping and cheering. Sherlock tugged him out of his chair and practically dragged him up the steps to the podium. It was only once he was looking out over the crowd that he fully realized what happened.

They’d won. They’d actually won. Their little comic book about a sarcastic, know-it-all detective had somehow grown into a movie that was good enough to win awards.

As the writers, John and Sherlock were both able to give a few quick words each: John thanked his sister, his creative writing professors, and Sherlock, while Sherlock thanked everyone smart enough to perceive how brilliant he was. John rolled his eyes and tugged the ridiculous man close for a hug. He glanced over and saw Greg up there with them, smiling wide and looking so proud and it twisted something in John’s chest that felt suspiciously like _want_.

 

***

 

Somehow, John found himself hustled into a large room at their hotel that was serving as the spot for the after-party. The atmosphere was extremely jovial, as expected, even as John shied away from it and stayed near Sherlock. Drinks seemed to flowing fairly freely and he could see Greg clutching a pint of beer as he joked around with a few other actors, most of which hadn’t been involved with the movie but were addicted to the revelry nonetheless.

Part of John knew he should be celebrating, and he truly was glad of their win. He just felt somewhat out of place amidst everyone else, not to mention the drinking that he’d been doing all afternoon and evening was starting to catch up with him. Multiple people kept coming up and congratulating him and all he really wanted to do was relax in his room with a bottle of water and a bad movie on the telly.

After a little over an hour, when John feels like he’s about to pass out standing, that he’s finally able to excuse himself without anyone asking questions. Only Sherlock gives him a knowing smirk as he makes his exit, as if Sherlock still actually expected something to happen that evening. It was almost endearing.

John shook it off as he rode up in the elevator, letting the strangeness of the evening fall off his shoulders. Up in his room a plush bed awaited with a warm set of a pajamas, and he’d never been so excited imagining that. At least not when he knew he was going to a plush bed alone. Less exciting was the reminder that his phone was also waiting for him. Where he was sure he would find numerous text messages, voicemail messages, and emails for him to read and respond to. Most of them will be from friends back home, but he knew that Sally had definitely left a fair share of her own.

With a sigh, he resigns himself to steadfastly ignore his phone until the morning, when he’ll feel more clear-headed. Instead, he starts undressing nearly as soon as he walks into his hotel room. Which is why he’s already in a tank and low slung sweatpants when he hears a knock on his door.

Thinking it to be Sherlock, he rolls his eyes and takes his time getting to the door. But when he yanks it open, it’s the slightly-tanned figure of Greg Lestrade greeting him instead. His grin is almost sheepish, his hands are shoved in his pockets, and he’s rocking back and forth on his heels and John knows that he himself must look foolish because he can’t seem to close his mouth or say anything in greeting.

Greg rubs the back of his neck and chuckles drily, “Sorry to intrude, but you escaped the party before I could talk to you.”

“It’s umm...it’s alright, it’s all fine, you were...you were busy.” John just manages to sputter out his response before realizing what Lestrade’s words imply.

“So...I believe you owe me some beer and nachos.”


End file.
